They had been a large family, those Greylstons, in their day, but now all were gone; all but John and Margaret, the two eldest—­the twin brother and sister.  They lived alone in their beautiful country home; neither had ever been married.  John had once loved a fair young creature, with eyes like heaven’s stars, and rose-tinged cheeks and lips, but she fell asleep just one month before her wedding-day, and John Greylston was left to mourn over her early grave, and his shivered happiness.  Dearly Margaret loved her twin brother, and tenderly she nursed him through the long and fearful illness which came upon him after Ellen Day’s death.  Margaret Greylston was radiant in the bloom of young womanhood when this great grief first smote her brother, but from that very hour she put away from her the gayeties of life, and sat down by his side, to be to him a sweet, unselfish controller for evermore, and no lover could ever tempt her from her post.

“John Greylston will soon get over his sorrow; in a year or two Ellen will be forgotten for a new face.”

So said the world; Margaret knew better.  Her brother’s heart lay before her like an open book, and she saw indelible lines of grief and anguish there.  The old homestead, with its wide lands, belonged to John Greylston.  He had bought it years before from the other heirs; and Margaret, the only remaining one, possessed neither claim nor right in it.  She had a handsome annuity, however, and nearly all the rich plate and linen with which the house was stocked, together with some valuable pieces of furniture, belonged to her.  And John and Margaret Greylston lived on in their quiet and beautiful home, in peace and happiness; their solitude being but now and then invaded by a flock of nieces and nephews, from the neighbouring city—­their only and well-beloved relatives.

It was long after sunset.  For two full hours the moon and stars had watched John Greylston, sitting so moodily alone upon the porch.  Now he got up from his chair, and tossing his cigar away in the long grass, walked slowly into the house.  Miss Margaret did not raise her head; her eyes, as well as her fingers, seemed intent upon the knitting she held.  So her brother, after a hurried “Good-night,” took a candle and went up to his own room, never speaking one gentle word; for he said to himself, “I am not going to worry and coax with Margaret any longer about the old pines.  She is really troublesome with her sentimental notions.”  Yet, after all, John Greylston’s heart reproached him, and he felt restless and ill at ease.

Miss Margaret sat very quietly by the low table, knitting steadily on, but she was not thinking of her work, neither did she delight in the beauty of that still autumn evening; the tears came into her eyes, but she hastily brushed them away; just as though she feared John might unawares come back and find her crying.

Ah! these way-side thorns are little, but sometimes they pierce as sharply as the gleaming sword.